He Remembers
by catherine ampere
Summary: Elephants never forget, and neither does Tony.


He watches her while she sleeps. He can't do anything but that, really, because her snoring reverberates off his walls and amplifies the sound in his ears. So he's forced to sit up and watch her, hoping with every ounce of his being that she isn't dreaming about the ghosts of her pasts. He holds his breath every time her brow furrows, praying that it won't be the start of something inescapable. She'd had but a few nightmares in his presence, but she'd unwillingly admitted that there had been more. There were always more. The frequency varied, and it _did_ please him to know that they were almost nonexistent when she slept by his side, but they still happened. Those memories were there, in the archives of her brain, waiting to creep into her dreams and torment her while she slept.

He remembers the first time they spent the night together. He doesn't count the undercover operation. He remembers that summer, and the late night movies that ended in too many drinks and crashing on the couch. He remembers when he boldly suggested she share his bed; not one to back down from a challenge, she climbed right in beside him in nothing but her gym shirt and underwear. He'd woken up with a black eye from a rogue fist, bruises on his shin, and a smile on his face that stayed there the whole day. Those nights continued for most of the summer till _she_ came along. He gave up on her, and whatever potential they could have had, the day he took the pretty doctor on a date. He knows now it was one of his stupider decisions, and really, how could he not have been creeped out by a woman who wants to get a place after less than a year together? But at the time, he could see nothing but the mission and _her_ smile and the way he felt when he thought of a life married to a doctor and two bilingual children playing in the front yard.

He remembers comforting her when she let herself fall for a dying man. He saw so much of his relationship with _her_ in their whirlwind romance: mainly, that it was doomed from the start. He watched her keep vigil by his bedside, bits of her hard exterior crumbling and exposing her giant heart. He watched it break, however minute, when he slipped away from a disease he had no chance of defeating. He reached out, but as a friend, and he still remembers the grateful look on her face when he faked an illness to give her some alone time. He'd do it again if it would still make her happy.

He remembers the late nights, watching her across the bullpen, speaking in hushed, Hebrew tones to a stranger thousands of miles away. He remembers wondering who _he_ was, what _he_ had that he couldn't give her, what made _him_ so special to her. He resented the secrets, the lying, and jealousy that brewed in his gut like summer's worst tempests. _He_ wasn't safe. _He_ wasn't right for her. But she wouldn't listen. And then it was too late. He remembers contemplating when she went from being just his partner to the only person that could make him happy forever.

He remembers the hollow, sickening pain of the plane taking off without her. He remembers leaning his head back and closing his eyes, hoping for a different scenario when he opened them again. He remembers retching in the corner, ignoring the looks of concern from his mentor; "bad falafel," he lied, and he remembers the way the older agent patted him on the shoulder in sympathy. He remembers staring at her empty desk and wanting nothing but the chance to see her face one more time, just once, so he could memorize the sparkle in her eyes, the slope of her nose, the curve of her lips. He remembers thinking that nothing could get worse. He remembers when it did.

He remembers being told the news; her ship went down. No survivors. He remembers feeling a piece of his soul break off and float around his body. Sometimes, he felt it rattle in his ribcage when it was quiet in the bullpen. He remembers the way faces blurred and words meshed and days turned into weeks. He remembers the hopeless feeling of a love lost before it had begun. Were they star-crossed, too?

He remembers the hatred pumping through in his veins as it mingled with truth serum. He remembers the triumphant look in his captor's eye when he thought he'd won. He remembers wanting nothing but vengeance for the man responsible for her death, for taking the light of his life from this earth. He remembers the way his lips chapped as he told his captor everything he needed to know, everything about the team he loved and the family bonded by something other than blood. He remembers wishing he could spill _his _blood, and the feeling of something akin to glee when he realized that in just a short while, someone would.

He remembers the way she looked when they threw her in front of him. He remembers seeing her, and being afraid to blink in case she was just a mirage. He remembers their few words exchanged, he remembers helping her out, and he remembers the feeling of her skin, clammy and bruised and vulnerable to the touch. He remembers the way she flinched on the way home as their mentor, and the closest thing she had to a father, poked and prodded and looked for bleeding wounds. He remembers wondering if his mentor knew that her most severe wounds were the ones inside of her, the ones they couldn't patch up and stitch and clean. The wounds and scars would forever be fresh in her mind, and he remembers concocting a plan to help lessen them whatever way he could.

He remembers the way she pressed her lips to his cheek in the bathroom. He remembers feeling the hope of a friendship restored. He remembers believing that anything more would forever be out of the question.

He remembers the way she fluttered around the bullpen for months, preparing to become a citizen. She'd quiz them all with trivia and laugh when she was the only one who could answer. He remembers every one of her smiles post-Somalia. Seeing her smile was what he lived for. He remembers promising her that he'd be there to watch her swear her loyalty to their country, and he remembers when he wasn't.

He remembers when it was just him, when he had one partner in Canada and another in Miami. He remembers the way his shoulders sagged in relief when she returned safe and sound, smelling of ocean and shea butter. And he remembers her mysterious smile when he interrogated her about her Miami man.

He tries not to remember _him_, the suave, worldly spy who broke her heart because _he _made promises _he_ couldn't keep. He can't help but remember the way they'd shared tales of their relationships, and what went wrong. He remembers laughing because he wasn't sure he could call his a relationship in the first place.

He remembers the way she fell apart when a man who mentored their mentor fought one last battle and died in the rain. He remembers the feel of her skin under his thumb and the way her body molded to his on the elevator. He remembers the sense of belonging when four colleagues gathered round and held on tight, clinging to what little family they had left. He remembers wondering if this was where he was supposed to be all his life, if fate had dealt him a shitty childhood so it could pay him back tenfold with his work family. That had to be it, he concluded. There was no other explanation.

He remembers late night drinks with her as they both tried to pick up the pieces of themselves after a vengeful serial killer, a boyfriend who couldn't commit, and a fling that felt too easy to be real. He remembers the way they'd laugh as they rehashed details of their day and took bets on their favorite forensic scientist and computer-savvy teammate shacking up after-hours. He remembers the triumphant look on her face when she won.

He remembers the first time they spent the night together since she'd been back. He was having his apartment fumigated and she volunteered to house him. He remembers the way he willingly took the couch; sharing a bed didn't cross his mind. She didn't correct him, but gave him her comfiest pillow and warmest blankets. She even asked if he wanted to accompany her on her morning run. He remembers agreeing wholeheartedly.

He remembers their first dinner together as something indefinable, something more than just partners and friends. He remembers his nerves and the way he spilled his beer all over her new dress. She simply laughed and placed a small hand on his shoulder. He remembers the way she eased his nerves instantly. She was the brave one, like always.

He remembers the first dinner he made her; he'd spent all day practicing the recipe. He remembers her finishing every last bite of her osso bucco, and he remembers licking his fork clean of the cheesecake she'd brought for dessert. He remembers the way she curled into him on the couch as they watched a movie. She fell asleep nestled into his side, and he stayed that way the whole night, unwilling to end the moment. He even remembers the gigantic knots in his back the next morning. But it was worth it, he remembers.

He remembers when eight months later he tells her that his lease was up. He remembers her smiling and telling him that hers was almost up, too. He remembers the way they both knew that there were no such things as coincidences. Oh yeah, fate was _really_ making it up to him.

He remembers last night, when she said "I love you" before turning on her side and falling asleep. They'd fought earlier over dirty dishes and overflowing hampers and hidden fears of boundaries neither were ready to let go. He remembers knowing that despite their argument, there was no way that either of them was ready to walk away from what they had. It had been a year already, and he remembers never feeling more in love.


End file.
